


Compassion

by Kammeri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Drama, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, Demons, F/M, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Magic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regret, Serious Injuries, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kammeri/pseuds/Kammeri
Summary: Three days after their journey to Lake Calenhad and the Circle of Magi to deal with Uldred's Uprising, Neria Surana faces the difficulty of the trauma of being mind-controlled by a blood mage, and the interference from Alistair's end.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Wynne (Dragon Age), Female Warden/Wynne (Dragon Age)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Compassion

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Graphic Language, Graphic Depictions of Demonic Possession

#  Compassion 

_“My dearest Neria,_

_As I write this letter, the snow blows harshly outside the windows. Do you remember your first snow? You were so frightened; you thought the world was ending, and you needed your father to save it as though I was some hero. “It’s killing the grass, papa!” I was honored that you had so much confidence in me, but we must all conquer our fears. I took you in my hands, and though you shrieked and scratched, I set you down into the cold earth so that you could see it was nothing to fear._

_And then, not too long after the snow melted back into the earth, it came back. This time from my daughter itself. And suddenly we were back to square one._

_It didn’t help that everything with Renee happened the way it did. She has harsh opinions on magic and it’s users. That doesn’t excuse her attitude, however. You need not feel any less because she cannot accept you. At the end of the day, if you use your magic for good, if you still attempt to be the wisest and kindest person within that tower, I will always be proud of you. Maybe that’s not enough, not the same as a mother’s pride, but I hope it helps nonetheless._

_You, my dear Neria, are an exceptional woman. You can and will do anything you want in this life because you are the smartest woman in Fereldan. Never doubt your intentions. Be bold when faced with fear. Be patient when in conflicts. Be compassionate when mistakes are made._

_I love you._

_Your father,_

_Gaemon.”_

###

The letter softly crumpled in her hand, and she quickly brushed away droplets of tears pooling at the base of her eyelid, cautious of potentially damaging the letter. Her stomach growled, the hunger in the pit of her stomach gnawing at her. Her eyes traveled over to the leftover food Wynne had saved and delivered for her, but she hadn’t felt up to the task of eating. Preserved with magic, it remained intact, and, to dispel the preservation barrier, she channeled what little focus she had, waving her fingers slowly over the dinnerware. Chicken this time, but she didn’t let that fool her; it was Ferelden chicken, which meant it was either under- or overcooked, and that no seasoning was used to even cover up the taste. She missed the night Zevran cooked; the entire party, except Morrigan, had pitched in for the purchase of Antivan spices, and the chicken that night was decadent; a spicy yet saccharine taste that pleased her tastebuds. A pang of hunger struck once more, and she was pulled away from her thoughts of the Antivan feast, turning her gaze once more to the sad chicken. She sighed and pulled at the breast, sticking strips of cooked flesh into her mouth. Overcooked tonight, but at least it was something.

_“Be bold when faced with fear. Be patient when in conflicts. Be compassionate when mistakes are made.”_

She wondered if she was worthy of the same compassion she tried to treat others with. Perhaps not. Perhaps there had been a lapse in her judgment, or... or maybe magic truly was a curse, and this was her punishment. Perhaps she had deserved for it to happen to her, she deserved the pain and misery, and magic would be her undoing.

It was three days ago.

###

“Shush!”

“Quit being such a weak bitch, Lillian!”

“I don’t care, Ray! This was a stupid idea to begin with, and I didn’t even want to join! I’m leaving.”

“Those fucking templars aren’t going to save you, idiot. They see you, and you’re dead.”

“That’s... that’s not true! The templars protect us! T-they’ll understand.” The girl, Lillian, began to step away, footsteps becoming louder and louder as she inched further toward the doorway.

“Take one more step, and I’ll gut you myself, you traitor.”

Her footsteps halted.

“Better to die than be a slave under Uldred.”

A blast suddenly erupted from inside the room, and the sheer force from the explosion caused the door to topple forward. Neria lept back, narrowing her eyes. She glanced at Zevran who smirked in understanding as he blended into the shadows, attempting to advance upon the two dueling sorcerers. Alistair charged forward, raising his shield upwards and closed his eyes, focusing his templar abilities to shrug off the spells hurling toward him now as the party interfered. The room was smothered in flames, the inferno devouring the banners of the Circle of Magi. Nearby desks that were overthrown, previously used as a cover for abominations, were now charred to bits. Neria, sensing an opportunity, formed a small, slightly tan ball in her hand, it’s contents thick and cloudy. She sent it forth onto the damaged floors of the room, and the viscous grease from within splattered, igniting instantly and setting Ray ablaze. He screamed in agony as he flesh charred to a crisp; Zevran lept from the darkness to plunge his dagger into the man’s back, and as he made a last-ditch effort to cast a final fireball, Alistair slammed his shield into his head, and the female wizard stumbled backward in horror. Wynne, desperate to save the remnants of the tower, quickly conjured bursts of water and frost to dispel the flame. Neria turned towards the mage opposite of her, cautiously inspecting her, unsure of her allegiance. The young girl, seemingly harmless, brought herself to her knees.

“P-please... spare me. I d-didn’t-“

“It’s okay.”

Lillian’s eyes widened in shock, mouth agape. Examining her more closely, Neria saw sweat covering her face like a blanket; she had deep bags underneath her eyes from exhaustion, and a scar ran across her cheek as well as a bruise. Wynne knelt beside Lillian, and she recoiled in fear. Seemingly uncaring, Wynne reached forward to run her bony fingers across her wounds, casting a healing spell that chimed softly as it restored her. She cleared her throat before addressing her. “Why, Lillian?”

“Wynne... I-“

“You’re a fool,” she snapped, whipping her hand away and sneering. “I hope you know that. Look at all you and Uldred have done. This tower will never be the same again.”

As the old healer chastised the girl, she began sobbing, reaching forward to land in Wynne’s comforting arms, but the senior enchanter retracted, eyes ablaze with hatred.

“You’re healed. That is all I will do for a maleficar such as yourself.” With a swift turn, she exited the room, and the girl was left helpless. Her body fell into the ground, tears raining down her face. She wailed and begged for Wynne to come back, to forgive her, but no response came. Neria’s hands awkwardly fumbled together, unsure of how to comfort or assist the mage. Alistair looked back to Wynne, eyes unsure and torn between helping or leaving the culprit. He brushed past Neria and softly murmured into her ear.

“We should go.”

Neria’s gaze lingered on the distraught girl. She was a criminal. A maleficar. She was part of the reason why all of this was happening, why what she used to consider home was now destroyed. She was responsible for countless deaths, of crimes unspeakable, but she showed regret. She needed to be punished; there was no question of that, but Neria wondered if redemption truly no longer existed for one such as her. She bent down beside her and spoke softly, careful to not startle her. “The way below is clear. The abominations have all been dealt with. The templars won’t let you in just yet, but it’s far safer there than here. I can’t--won’t help you, not after the destruction and ruin you and Uldred’s like have caused. But if you find it within to help yourself… it’s possible to live life again. I promise.”

Having spoken, she turned away to rejoin Wynne to continue to ascend the Circle of Magi.

“Why did you abandon her? I mean no offense, Wynne. It’s just… so you think she deserved death? You have no compassion for her?

Wynne shut her eyes, contemplating her words. “She is a blood mage. She stands for chaos. For ruin. For pure destruction. I cannot abide by that. If she dies, so be it. A price to pay for the deaths she caused.”

“You don’t believe she deserves a second chance?”

“Some people,” she spoke, her voice beginning to strain, her eyes dropping to the floor, “don’t deserve a second chance. Regardless, I made my choice, as did you. I only pray yours did not doom us all.”

Every room they passed began to look alike; filled with abominations that haunted Neria. She wondered if she knew any of them but quickly fled from those thoughts. It would only make her duty that much harder. But at last, they reached the Harrowing Chamber. Neria remembered hers only all too well, the ritual having been taken place only weeks ago. The Fade indescribable to her, or at least, the feeling was. Visually, everything seemed blurry yet focused, turning but still, complex and simple all at the same time, a never-ending oxymoron of a faded reality that twisted her stomach at the thought of the vast destruction within. Demons frightened her greatly, but she found spirits comforting. They embodied virtues she could only hope she resembled. As they climbed the staircase, an agonized shriek came from the spire, shooting dread throughout the party. Neria’s fearful eyes locked with Wynne’s determined gaze. Unwavering, she reached her wrinkled palm forward, placing it upon Neria’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. You have the Litany of Adralla, yes?”

Neria nodded, and Wynne smiled. “Then we’ll be fine. I promise. Let us proceed.”

The chamber was a vast room, circular in its structure, but the interior was empty, save for a metal pedestal situated upon the center, meant to act as the bearer of lyrium for mages to utilize to enter the Fade. At least, that was how Neria remembered it. Now the chamber was in disarray. That same pedestal was flung to the side, cracked into two pieces laying opposite of each other; bloody, maimed victims laid strewn about, a few barely clinging desperately to what little light of life quivered in their eyes, whimpering soft, agonized cries; all victims of Uldred’s cruelty. As Neria and her party approached, he stepped towards a young mage, a small, petite lad barely old enough to grow his chin hairs. He winced as Uldred grasped his jaw tightly as if he was sizing up a horse. Two fleshy abominations acting as his bodyguards grasped him tightly in their lanky arms.

“Do you accept the gift I offer you, boy?”

His eyes flickered nervously from one abomination to the other, each tightening their grip and sneering, eagerly awaiting his response. He nodded quickly, and Uldred smirked. He turned away, and the abominations let him fall with a thud. Uldred unsheathed a dagger and drew it to his wrists, cutting it violently. Blood pooled around the slit, and he focused the vile energy. His eyes lit up with fury and chaos, and he channeled a spell forward into the young mage. He began to writhe, groaning in pain. Something cracked, and his back lurched out, his muscles contorting to fit the snapped spine, creating a fleshy hunchback. The mage screamed, his voice growing hoarser and hoarser. His hands reached out, the mutation overtaking them as they began to lengthen, and his fingernails desperately scraped against the floor, blood coating them as the skin peeled away. He let out a final shriek, and his face was overcome by flesh and veins, his mouth now covered with a large strip of muscle, muffling any cries he made. And then... silence. The transformation was complete.

Neria couldn’t suppress the vomit, the bile rising in her throat, and she hurled over in disgust. Uldred’s crazed gaze now turned toward the party, and Alistair raised his shield in defense. Zevran readied a dagger, prepared to hurl it toward him at the first sight of a threat.

“Now, now. It’s not nice to get so… violent. Can’t stand the sight of power in its rawest form, hmm?”

Neria turned back to Uldred, wiping her mouth. “What did you do to him?”

“I granted him a gift. A gift you could possess. Yes, I recognize you, dear. Neria, was it?”

“Keep her name out of your mouth,” retorted Alistair, his sword itching to draw toward Uldred. His eyes lit up with rage and hatred.

“Oh, that’s quite enough, templar. Neria, what do you say? I sense… a great deal of power within. Yes, much more than the old crone you keep beside you.”

“How dare you, Uldred. You’ve wreaked destruction upon this tower. Was it worth it? All the death and ruin? You wanted independence once upon a time. How is this-”

“Everything I have done has been for the sole purpose of empowering mages.” Uldred’s voice boomed, resounding throughout the chamber as he interrupted Wynne. “You, Irving, the Libertarian bastards; you let yourself be enslaved by the chantry, and I ask you this: why? You have sheer power at your disposal. Why choose chains when you could choose freedom? Nevermind that, but the ability to rule the world itself? You’re pathetic. The whole lot of you!”

Neria swiftly twirled her staff from her back into her hand. “You’re right. Freedom is always worth fighting for. The ability to choose, the ability to do; it’s invaluable. But this… this was not the way of getting it. Not death.”

“So you succumb to their beliefs as well then? Fine.”

Uldred stepped away, back to the center of the chamber.

“Then let’s see how much you’re willing to defend that, hmm?”

Neria had always found herself fascinated with demonic possession. In all the books she read, it always sounded the same: the demon could take on a host and manifest themselves at their own will, but it was never truly described how this manifestation took place, and even if it was, it was never enough. The author could be lying, and Neria could never say for certain that she knew. But this was not how she expected to learn. Uldred’s spine did not snap like the boy before him, but his flesh was stripped away immediately, exposing his bare muscles that seemed to enlarge exponentially. Uldred cried out, and his height began to tower that of the abominations until reaching the top of the chamber. Magic swirled around the bulky mass, hardening and creating a thick, black, durable skin akin to armor. His face began to stretch as sharpened, slick horns formed, mimicking his hands that began to take the shape of claws. The monstrosity roared, and Neria recognized it all too well: a demon of pride.

The demon’s claws swung out at the party, and Alistair raised his shield to deflect the block. The force of the brute’s attack stumbled him backward, and the abominations, sensing the danger, ran to their master’s aid. Two nearby mages, associates of Uldred, assumed different corners of the chamber, preparing offensive spells. Wynne raised her staff, and an orange-blue essence flew towards each of her allies, filling them with regenerative magic. Neria conjured a fireball and hurled it toward the group of abominations, igniting each with a blazing flame. Zevran focused his efforts towards the demon. Although inexperienced with such a creature, his assassin’s mind went to work, pinpointing each weakness of the demon. Together, the party worked to slay the monster. What-was-Uldred growled viciously at a nearby mage that nodded, seemingly understanding the order given to him, and he ran forth to a nearby injured mage and grasped him tightly, murmuring an incantation.

“Use the Litany, NOW!”

Neria pulled the scroll from her waist, her eyes racing across the text. She chanted loudly, pleading for the spell to work, and then, like a wisp, a burst of energy raced forth to the mage and knocked him backward. He glared at Neria and brought himself to his feet. Grinning wickedly, he hurled a fist of stone towards her. Alistair, distracted by the pride demon, failed to take notice, and she was swiftly knocked off her feet, the Litany hitting the ground with a clamor.

“If not him, then I shall use you!”

The mage slit his wrists and channeled a burst of blood magic toward Neria. As it hit her frail body, her vision became blurry. The spell was not any she had encountered before. No, this one was different. Not pain exactly, but an indescribable sensation. It surged throughout her body, gripping every vein and artery she possessed. She reached out to Wynne. Wait, what am I doing? Why am I lying here still? Her arms wouldn’t move. She felt numb, yet she could feel the pain from her bruised stomach. She felt panicked, yet completely calm. Neria brought herself to her feet, her eyes alight with a crimson red that focused on the blood mage opposite of her.

“Kill them.”

Like a bystander, she felt as though she was watching herself from a glass window, unable to interfere. Her soul screamed out, pleading for her willpower to fight back, to control once more. No, no, NO! This is MY body, goddamnit! LET ME GO! NOW! Her mind felt strained, the intensity of the spell clouding her thoughts. Desperate to break it, tears fell from her eyes, but nevertheless, she obeyed the mage and zapped Wynne with a bolt of thunder. She cried out and winced as the lightning hit her. Wynne’s shocked eyes filled with worry as she realized the threat. She quickly cast a glyph of paralysis upon the ground and cried out for Alistair to assist her. The templar whipped back around, eyes focusing intently upon Neria who met his gaze with her own cruel one. She grinned, and threw her hands up, lightning crackling between her palms. A thunderstorm. Alistair, fearful for the lives of his allies, charged forward, bashing her with his shield. As she hit the ground, he drove his sword into the stone floor, calling upon the Maker to banish her sorcery. A fierce, bright light smote her, and life itself drained from Neria’s face. A burning pain filled her from within, singing the very essence of lyrium in her blood, igniting each nerve she possessed aflame, desperate for relief, for respite. She screamed. A forlorn shriek that pierced each individual’s ears, a wail of a wretched banshee that curdled the blood of all in the Chamber of Harrowing. Following up the smite, he cast a dispel effect upon the area, and the blood mage’s control left her, but the pain remained, and she quickly lost consciousness as her vision faded to black.

###

Compassion. Something her father would never let her forget.

But how could she ever feel that for the man that would strike her like that?

Wynne peered into her tent and coughed politely. She knelt beside her slowly, her rickety knees no longer working as they used to. “How are you feeling?”

“Who cooked tonight?”

“...Alistair.”

“I figured.”

“I was wondering if you felt like talking.”

Neria remained silent.

She delicately pulled her tunic off her torso, examining the deep, red burn that stained her chest. Her fingers ran across it, and she winced. She stared at it more closely. The pain had infiltrated her from… well, everywhere. She wondered why she had not been burned everywhere but was thankful that it only affected the particular region.

“He… he sends his apology once more. The poor boy cannot seem to let go of this. Nor can you, I suspect, and do not mistake me, Neria. You are right in your anger. I... I know what you have been through.”

Her knowing gaze met Neria’s, and she wrapped her arms around the elven girl. “It’s beyond pain itself. I would not wish it upon anyone. For a brief moment, it almost feels as though you are tranquil. Each droplet of lyrium is expelled from our bodies, and you no longer feel… human. But unlike tranquil, it’s temporary, and suddenly you are conscious once more, and the burning never leaves you. But you know something? I survived. I made it through. And you will too. You survived Ostagar. You survived the Battle of Redcliffe. And you will survive this.”

“He just… he did it without hesitation. As though I was just another mage. Wynne, am I just another mage to him? I thought… I thought we were…”

She sobbed into her arms, curling close to the elder healer. Wynne stroked her head gently, shushing her. Neria’s mother had abandoned her once she learned of her magical ability. She had forgotten the comfort, love, and hope women such as Wynne could bring to those ailed by despair.

“He panicked, Neria. As we all do. It does not mean he loves you any less. It was foolish, reckless. But then again, so is Alistair. It is up to you whether you forgive him. But I can tell you he has never had a deeper regret. Perhaps you should get more sleep. I will-”

“No. I… I need to talk to him. Thank you, Wynne.”

She pulled her tunic back across her bodice and swiftly exited the tent, but she was matched with the sound of a soft fire crackling, crickets chirping wildly in the bushes; no templar to be seen amongst the campfire. She stepped out into the vast forest, brushing past the green leaves and lengthy branches of the tall trees before stepping out into an isolated area of the wood. A somewhat shallow river laid in the middle, lapping softly against the muddy earth. Alistair sat at the edge, his eyes shut, unable to meet his reflection in the water. His fingers swirled the water, and as Neria stepped onto a branch that cracked, he jumped up and reached for his blade before realizing it was at camp. He readied his fists, but upon seeing the elf, his fists unraveled, and his eyes widened.

“Neria! A-are you okay? I--all of us, we’ve been so worried.” He approached her, but stopped himself, realizing the unspoken boundary now set between them. “I… I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m pathetic and weak, and I never should have done that to you. I just… I panicked. And I know that’s a terrible excuse, but you’re such a talented mage, and I know that if you were under his influence, that would spell the end for all of us. Please, please, please believe me. You don’t need to forgive me or anything, just… believe me. Please, Neria.”

But her gaze did not waver. She did not speak. She did not move. She simply turned her attention to the river and it’s softly trickling water. She sat down at the edge and patted the grass beside her. Alistair took a seat next to her, and she wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you thought being quarantined meant more one-shots from me, you were DEAD WRONG. Been a whole month. Jeez. I hate myself. I have no excuse, other than I've been grinding in Skyrim and Apex Legends for the past two weeks.
> 
> Anyway, enough about me. So, a couple of things: 1. I was really inspired by the idea of Alistair's templar abilities in conjunction with a mage warden, but then I thought, "Well, what if he used them on him/her?" and yeah. This was the result! 2. I imagine Wynne as neutral good, so sympathy for a blood mage is... weird. She'd heal them, make sure they were okay, but nothing more. Just my opinion though. 3. I do NOT have PTSD, and the only person I know with it is my mother, and we've never talked about it, so expanding upon it was rough for me. If you have constructive criticism involving that aspect of my writing, I would greatly appreciate feedback, via sources that could help me better understand it or through your own knowledge of it as well! I'm always interested in improving those parts of my writing!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I'm still a bit new to this AO3 thing, but I'm having a lot of fun writing these stories! It's always great to see them finished! ^^;


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